


Lay It Bare

by doomedship



Category: Bodyguard (TV 2018)
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-25 06:14:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16191740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomedship/pseuds/doomedship
Summary: "He wonders then if he should stop her, prepare her, tell her what to expect." Missing scene, post-episode 2.





	Lay It Bare

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a prompt about the first time Julia sees David's scars, which I think had already been written by someone else but I'll post anyway. Set in the lead up to the third episode.

The first time they are together, they barely stop to unbutton his shirt. It's desperate and it's reckless, and he strips her naked because it's what she needs to feel scrubbed clean after everything that's happened, but he leaves his own clothing in place like it's some strange courtesy, a polite barrier between them. It's too soon to lay it all out there. 

The second time they are together, it's frantic and it's pure temptation that they can't resist. Proximity is a drug to them; logic is left at the door and she is in his arms. He drags off her smart trousers out of necessity alone; leaving everything else in place just adds to the heat. He unbuttons just far enough, pushes aside her knickers and buries himself in her, holding her rigid as the fire burns straight through each of them. It's dangerous and unsure and neither of them knows where the other truly stands. 

The third time they are together, things are changing fast. 

It's only two days later, and they are holed up in the hotel room, going a bit stir crazy. Her schedule is hectic but because they must always come straight back to the same suite of rooms each night, it feels like they are constantly there, just feet away from each other. Any detour is a risk to her security which he's not willing to take, and recently she's been much more willing to let him lead on these things. Whether because of the change in their relationship or because being shot at has been a wake up call, he doesn't know. 

He also doesn't know why he can't stop thinking about her. Why the idea of not being with her or touching her for a whole night is somehow galling, and why his fingers twitch with the urge to turn the handle on her door and go to her, even though he doesn't really know her still but he does know she's hiding far more than she tells.

He holds back. This has to be her move. She is the principal and he the PPO; he must always walk a step behind and let her lead, watching and protecting but never controlling. 

The lock turns and the door opens. 

She waits patiently while he lingers. Gathers himself, because being with Julia Montague is difficult and tiring and uncertain, but in the space of days she has become a habit he is unwilling, or unable, to give up. 

"Aren't you going to come in?" she says softly, the low glow of her room a warm beacon inviting him in. But he hesitates on the threshold. Whatever this thing between them is, it is bewildering; it's a lion lying down with a lamb, and he doesn't think there's enough that's biblical about them for that to be okay. 

He can't explain himself, struggles to answer her, takes a few steps towards her instead. She looks at him with longing, and if he hadn't already decided to go to her that look would be enough; she pulls him like he's tied to her with an invisible thread he cannot cut, and he doesn't even think he would if he could. 

She takes his hand and leads him to her bed, and he notices straight away that this time the tone is very different. She is tired, melancholic instead of desperate, and the urgency is gone. There is a raw vulnerability in its place her that strikes a chord in him, matches the bone-weariness he too is hiding inside. 

"I know this is... implausible," she says, still holding onto him. "But the thing is, David. I find I can't seem to give you up." 

He nods, still unable to formulate his thoughts, not trusting his words not to fuck this up for him when he knows he feels the same. He sees what she is offering and against all odds he wants so desperately to take it. She seems to understand. 

She smiles, then, and almost tentatively she raises her hands to his collar, loosens his tie. He swallows, realising where this is going, and finds himself unexpectedly on a precipice. A choice, to let her do this and jump headlong, or to run from the edge and pull her back with him. 

He thinks maybe she's worth the fall. 

With the tie discarded, she moves her fingers deftly to his buttons, undoes each one with a precise efficiency that doesn't surprise him. Her eyes flick up to his as his shirt comes open, and she pushes it from his shoulders and drapes it over the edge of the bed. He smiles tiredly as he strokes the back of her neck, and she tips her head questioningly as she runs her hands over the thick padding of his ballistic vest. 

He smiles again and inclines his head, permitting, helping her to get the weight of it off him, so that all that remains is his plain white undershirt. It's the last thing that stands between this being more than just a quick shag, a furtive physical act easily smoothed over with the quick zip of a fly and a refastened button. With it gone, he knows an intimacy will follow which will seal his fate, for better or for worse. 

She meets his eyes as she lifts the bottom of his vest, and he wonders then if he should stop her, prepare her, tell her what to expect. He has come to terms with the damage that lies beneath, is desensitised to the crisscrossed scars that map out each line of his past. But she won't be prepared, just as Vicky wasn't, just as most wouldn't be. 

But he's already learnt that Julia Montague is thrown by next to nothing. 

So he chooses to let her discover for herself, not resisting as she lifts his vest, and lets her slide it over his head. 

He can see the moment she realises, and feels a strange satisfaction in mapping out her response. It's subtle, very subtle, almost imperceptible as she puts two and two together, her keen eyes flicking over the marks and only the tiny narrowing of her brow betraying the direction of her thoughts. She says nothing. He doesn't know why but he feels like she has somehow passed a test he didn't know he was setting, and with her there is no shock or sorrow, no exclamation or apology. She is unrepentant and unashamed, and he revels in her conviction. 

She runs a hand over his side, thinking, and then it seems she is done processing and she looks up at him levelly, straight in the eye, and casually leans in to capture his mouth with hers. He likes the way she kisses him; the power in her bleeds through and she always dictates, says when he can return her kiss and when she will shy away. He likes even more when she finally lets herself be caught. 

She tackles his belt next, and then he realises he's about to be at a heavy disadvantage, and bites her lip as he tugs the zip at the back of her shirt down. She smirks against his mouth and lets him remove it, but she dodges his hands when he goes for her bra and undoes his trousers instead, pushing them down impatiently. He steps out obediently, quirking a brow at her as he watches for her next move. She simply smiles at him, running her eye along the length of him appreciatively as she straightens. She looks smugly pleased with what she sees, and then blatantly, she stands back and undoes her own fastenings and steps neatly out of her trousers, the movement full of her own confidence and control. She moves to stand in front of him, hips brushing close to his. 

"So," she says quietly. "This is us."

"This is us," he confirms. He reaches out to graze her hip with his thumb, and her eyes flutter shut. He doesn't make another move for a long beat, and she smiles, opening her eyes and walking him back until the back of his knees hit the bed. 

"Not too late to change your mind," she murmurs against his lips. "This can still be a one-off moment of madness, if you want."

"I think it's already been twice, Ma'am," he replies, dropping his lips to her neck. She sighs and her fingers wind into his waistband. 

"You're right. It's much too late for us," she says. She's being tongue in cheek, but he thinks maybe she knows just how right she is. 

She sheds his boxers and suddenly he's stripped bare in front of her, and he draws back to acknowledge the moment. She's looking back at him with warm and heavy eyes, and she smiles softly in a way that makes this feel like far more than giving in to lust. He reclaims her mouth and this time, she doesn't stop him when he reaches back and unfastens her bra, hands skimming over the smooth expanse of her back. She sighs against him, pushes him so he leans back onto the bed, pulling her down with him. 

The feel of her flush against him, skin to skin for the very first time, is almost overwhelming, an intoxicating rush he was never expecting. He doesn't even remember the last time it felt like this, and wonders whether it ever did. She kisses him hard, and moves to his neck to apply enough pressure that he wonders if she's deliberately trying to leave a mark, one that she'll be able to see every time she looks at him as he walks in step beside her all day long. 

This time is different to the others in almost every way. Before, she let herself be handled, asking him to take away her overwhelming sense of fear and shock and loss by encasing her bodily in his strength and command, re-balancing herself by letting him lead her back. 

Now, it's a different story, and she's poised above him in complete control, measured and composed. She doesn't rush to finish this, and he doesn't protest as she embarks on a thorough exploration of his body, strokes across his scars, uses her mouth on him for the first time. He feels like he's walked straight into the most illicit of his fantasies watching her hovering over him, and he wonders how that sharp politician's tongue can also be so adept at delivering this kind of message. 

When she finally has her fill of toying with him she sheds her underwear, smiles as she leans over him, lets him glide his fingers over slick flesh as he takes the full sight of her in. He's wide-eyed beneath her and trusting, one hand wrapped around the back of her thigh. 

Eventually she runs out of patience, or maybe he does, but the outcome is the same; she cries out in relief and sharp pleasure as she sinks down on him, and he feels the stirring of something deep inside him which he has long since forgotten he knew how to feel. 

It's not like the other times; he is not comforting her or rescuing her and they are in no hurry. She's astride him and in control, and little guttural gasps and sighs are pouring from her with increasing speed and it's all he can do to hold on to wait for her to have everything she wants before he is utterly spent within her. She keeps her eyes open and makes sure she watches him at the end, their fingers knotted together in the bedsheets underneath them. 

This time, in the quiet aftermath, no one rushes to leave. 

After long moments she moves slowly from the spot on his chest she collapsed onto, pushing herself up and rolling onto her back to lie right beside him, her breath still rapid and her eyes bright with exertion. 

Instead of avoiding his gaze and hiding from him, this time she turns her head and links her fingers with his. He shifts to look back at her, blinking slowly as the pleasurable haze slowly releases his brain. She smiles softly. 

Something has changed, and he's either a man damned or he's flying, or maybe where Julia is concerned those things are one and the same. 

She looks at him tenderly, and places her hand on his chest.

"Will you tell me about your scars?" she asks, and he looks at her searchingly. 

He covers her hand with his own, and props his head on his hand as he begins to talk. 

She has already bared his scars, and with it he begins to bare his soul.


End file.
